


The First Start

by WordsInTheAtmosphere



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-30 14:26:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12110691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WordsInTheAtmosphere/pseuds/WordsInTheAtmosphere
Summary: It’s his fault that the new transfer student is being treated the way he is. The least he could do is make him some lunch.[Written for the Moon Boy Zine. Thanks for letting me be a part of it!]





	The First Start

He really should’ve minded his own business.

Every day the same conversation circles the classrooms and the hallways about “that guy with the criminal record”, and if it isn’t Mishima’s own fault that the rumours have gotten this bad it would’ve been so much easier to just ignore it. The target in point doesn’t seem remotely bothered by it himself; he often sits alone at lunch, skimming through a book or talking quietly to his desk (which Mishima finds out later that there’s a cat there, of all things). The snide remarks and petty rumours whispered around are definitely loud enough for Akira to hear, but he never shows any signs of noticing, of even trying to correct them. At first Mishima wonders if Akira is just plain oblivious, but at times when the gossip gets especially bad, Akira simply gets up and leaves. Cool and composed as always, it seems, and if Akira isn’t bothered by it then there’s no reason for him to worry.

It’s just that the students in his class talk so damned _loud_. None of the rumours they speak of are true, at least they can’t be, because Akira saved him once and he isn’t the kind of person everyone believes he is. It’s agonizing to hear all the things they accuse Akira of doing without any proof, without even bothering to get to know him first. And, Mishima thinks with a twinge of guilt, he could’ve been one of them too if Akira hadn’t bothered to step in and offer his help. Even if Mishima had been forced to do it, this is all because of him and there’s really nothing he can do about it.

Or at least nothing about the rumours. He has finally had enough when the girls sitting beside him giggle and whisper, “Look how pitiful that criminal record guy is, always sitting by himself at lunch. No one will want to sit with him.” It leaves a bad taste in his mouth, and so he stands up.

He moves a little too fast, and his chair screeches across the floor in protest. The chatter in the classroom dies down and everyone turns their eyes on him, and suddenly his neck is burning hot. He glances over at Akira, sitting by himself and flipping through the book in his hands. _No one will want to sit with him._ Feeling the stares boring into his skin, he grips his lunch and his phone and walks over to Akira.

He shouldn’t be playing with fire. Everyone’s eyes are on him. But how else will he prove those girls wrong? He pulls out the empty seat in front of Akira (Ann’s, he remembers, a good thing she never eats in the classroom) and sits himself down. Akira looks up, his eyebrows rising slightly, and snaps his book shut.

Their classmates’ stares are burning holes in Mishima now, and he forces a strained smile and puts his lunch down on the table. “Mind if I join you?” he asks, and Akira looks surprised at the question.

“Sure,” he says, and Mishima is relieved because he isn’t quite sure what he would’ve done if Akira had said no. He opens the bagged bread he bought earlier from the school’s store and begins to eat, trying to ignore the stares of their classmates.

There are too many eyes on them to talk about the phansite, so they talk about their homework, about the book Akira is reading, about their next class. The attention on them dissipates soon, and Mishima knows it’s because everyone had been expecting Akira to do something _delinquent_ to him but Akira is more normal than expected, more reserved and quiet. _Bastards,_ he thinks, _they’re only interested in seeing if Akira will prove their rumours right._

He turns his attention back to Akira, and soon he notices that Akira doesn’t seem to be eating. In fact, there isn’t any food on his desk.

“Don’t you have anything to eat today?” He asks.

“The store is out of bread,” Akira says, and smiles sheepishly when his stomach growls. “Don’t mind me. I’ll eat something when I get home.”

Well, of course it doesn’t feel right for Mishima to eat his lunch in front of Akira now. “I doubt you can last till school is over. That was quite a loud growl, you know?” He has already taken a few bites out of his bread and he doesn’t have any more on him, so he grips the wrapper and breaks the remaining bread in half. “Here,” he says, passing over the wrapped piece of bread with a smile, “rations.”

Akira looks as though he’s about to object, but he bursts into laughter instead. “Rations?” he echoes, smiling as he accepts the bread. “Interesting choice of words.”

“Yeah, well, this school’s bread is not exactly great, but it’s better than nothing.” Mishima finishes his half of the bread and opens his drink. “It helps us last the day, you know? Like rations.”

“Not great, but better than nothing.” Akira takes a bite out of the bread. “You might be right there.”

They smile at each other, and Akira wolfs the bread down in large, hungry bites. Mishima lowers his can to watch, his eyebrows rising. “Wow. Now I feel like I should’ve just given you my whole lunch.”

 Akira feeds the last piece of the bread to the cat under his table, a cat that Mishima is pretty sure he isn’t allowed to bring to school in the first place. “No, really, that was nice of you. Thanks. Tomorrow I’ll make sure to buy my rations early.”

But the next day their class is held back before lunch, and they both end up missing their chance. The store doesn’t have any bread left, and they retreat back to the classroom with empty stomachs. “It would be easier if we just brought our own,” Mishima says, and Akira shrugs.

“I can’t. The fridge is…I’m staying at a coffee shop. The stuff in the fridge isn’t meant for me.”

“Oh.” Mishima pauses, and then continues without a second thought. “Then I’ll make something for you.”

Akira looks at him with surprise written across his eyes, and it suddenly occurs to Mishima that the offer sounds a little strange coming from him. “Nothing fancy, mind you,” he hastily adds, “I’m not a cook or anything. I can make plain sandwiches. Just a step above rations, I think.”

“Well, if it’s not too much trouble.” Akira smiles and absently rubs the back of his neck, looking almost a little shy. It’s weird to think this of a guy with a criminal record, but Mishima finds himself thinking that the taller boy has a surprisingly cute side to him.

“Leave it to me,” he says.

So the next morning he wakes up a little earlier than usual to prepare their lunches. It’s not easy because he hasn’t gotten enough sleep thanks to the phansite, but he stifles his yawn as he puts together a couple of scrambled egg sandwiches. As an afterthought, he makes another for the cat too. _Do cats eat egg sandwiches?_ He sleepily wonders, and packs them into his bag.

The stares and whispers don’t stop when he sits across Akira during lunch, but he is quickly learning how to tune them out. “Lunch,” he says, passing over the sandwiches, “for your, uh, cat too.”

A soft meow sounds from under the table, and Akira’s face brightens. “Wow. You even made one for Morgana.”

Morgana. Weird name for a cat. “Sorry, I don’t have any cat food in my house. I hope Morgana eats egg sandwiches.”

“He eats anything,” Akira says, and passes a sandwich under his table. “Thank you.”

They eat and talk about various things, and though the egg sandwich is really quite plain and a little burnt, Akira looks like he is enjoying himself. He eats every bite, licking the crumbs off his fingers, and for some reason Mishima feels the need to turn his eyes away at that. Still, it’s a nice feeling to see someone appreciate something he did, and he finds himself in a good mood for the rest of the day.

He makes their lunches after that, getting a little better at not burning the eggs and actually using seasonings for once. Akira always eats his food without complaint, but he remarks on the improvements and the praise warms Mishima’s heart. The way Akira smiles at the taste makes him want to try harder, even if he doesn’t have much interest in cooking in the first place. One evening after school he stops by the Central Street bookstore, and after much deliberation, buys a cheap cookbook for easy sandwich ideas.

When he brings a fancier lunch to school, Akira’s eyes widen. “I feel like I should be paying you for this,” he says, feeding the salmon cucumber sandwich to Morgana. A low, appreciative meow interrupts him. “Morgana says thank you.”

“A fan of fish, huh? Should’ve guessed.” Mishima grins as he bites into his own. “And you don’t have to pay me. I just thought we might be tired of existing on egg sandwiches for a while.”

They eat, Akira quieter than usual, engrossed in enjoying the fancier sandwich. “It feels like it’s been a long time since anyone has been this nice to me,” he says under his breath, and then falls silent like as if he hadn’t meant to say that aloud. Mishima recalls the stares of the class, the teachers’ pointed looks, the whispered rumours down the hallways, and his grip on his sandwich tightens. He’d been too worried about people staring at him for joining Akira to remember that Akira has always been the target all along. Sure, Akira had played it cool, but it would bother anyone. He should’ve known it would’ve gotten to Akira too, instead of assuming that everything is okay. _This is all my fault_ , he remembers, and suddenly it’s hard to swallow his lunch.

He should’ve minded his own business, but now he can’t ignore the guilt eating away at him. “What’s your favourite food?” He blurts out, and Akira blinks at the sudden change in topic.

“Hmm? I don’t really—” he trails off, thinking for a moment, and then, “curry, maybe?”

 _There’s no way I can cook something that difficult_ , comes the thought, _nor can I pack something like that as lunch_. “Oh,” Mishima says, feeling a little deflated, “anything, uh, easier?”

Akira smiles at him, taking another bite from his sandwich. “I like your food.”

There’s a weird feeling jumping in Mishima’s stomach, unfamiliar and ticklish, and he forces a nervous laugh. “Well, anything tastes nice when you’re hungry.”

Akira laughs at that, and for the life of him Mishima can’t figure out why the sound makes his chest flutter. _Lack of sleep, maybe,_ he thinks as he watches Akira eat, _or a weird case of indigestion._

The guilt is still eating away at him, so that evening he asks his mother if she can help him make curry for dinner. “Goodness,” she says, looking startled at the thought that Mishima is willingly helping with dinner without being threatened in some form, “what’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing,” he insists, _I just want to try at least once,_ but he knows if he says that aloud he will be at the mercy of his mother’s teasing _._ It takes an agonizingly long time for them to cook it, because he isn’t as good with the knife as she is and there are some emergency trips to the first aid box, but with her guidance they make something edible together.

“Is there any way I can bring this for lunch tomorrow?” he asks, and his mother raises an eyebrow.

“You can try, but it won’t be easy. You’re not the most graceful person to carry a lunchbox, and it’ll make a mess, you know?”

As painfully blunt as his mother is, she speaks the truth. He sighs, placing his head down on the table in defeat. _Sorry Kurusu,_ he thinks with a wry smile, _but you’ll have to settle with my sandwiches instead._

His hand is resting on the sandwich cookbook, and he turns his head and flips through the pages. He’s absently thinking about the ingredients in the fridge when a page catches his eye. He flips back and reads the title “curry bread” displayed in bold font across the top, and then it clicks. Ah. He really should’ve thought of this sooner.

The instructions are a lot more complicated than he is used to, and as he skims the steps he starts calculating the amount of time it will take him to make it. “Isn’t this supposed to be a book for _easy_ sandwiches?” he grumbles, but he can’t think of a better lunch to make for tomorrow, not with the curry already made. He thinks of Akira’s smile as he eats, thinks of his lonely voice, and he makes up his mind. This curry bread will be made, even if he has to forgo sleep for it.

The recipe is complicated because he has to make the bread from scratch, so he makes it now instead of waiting till morning. It’s messy and difficult and the most cooking he has ever done in a single day, and his inexperience in the kitchen lengthens the time actually required to cook the bread. By the time he is done cooking and cleaning up, he is exhausted and the sun is rising.

He passes out on the dining table, too tired to move, but he wakes a couple of hours later to his alarm. The curry bread he made are misshapen, but he carefully eats one and it tastes halfway decent, so he picks the nicest shaped ones and packs them into a lunchbox.

When he arrives at school, Kawakami stops him before the class starts. “Mishima,” she says, “do you mind collecting everyone’s homework and bringing them to my office at lunch?”

He’s on class duty today and he doesn’t really have a choice, so he smiles politely and agrees. There will be no time to eat together and it’s a little disappointing that he won’t get to see Akira’s reaction to the curry bread, but the important thing is that Akira gets something to eat. When it’s lunchtime, he catches the taller boy before he leaves with the class’s homework.

He glances around, and when he’s sure no one is looking he hands over the lunchbox to Akira. “Your lunch,” he says. “Uh, it’s not very good, but I think it’s pretty edible.”

“What happened to your hands?” Akira frowns down at the bandages covering Mishima’s fingers, and then he leans closer to look at his face. “You look tired too.” It feels weird to admit that he didn’t get much sleep because he was up making Akira’s lunch, so Mishima laughs it off instead, feeling oddly nervous at how close Akira’s face is to his.

“Uhm, I have bad sleeping habits?”

Akira smiles, but the worry in his eyes doesn’t fade. “Why are you asking me that?”

There is something tender in his voice, not quite kindness or amusement but something akin to affection. _Oh no_ , Mishima thinks, _something might really be wrong with me_. His heart won’t stop pounding, and he’s starting to feel a little hot from embarrassment. “I have to go,” he says, and he hurries away with the homework clutched tightly in his hands.

When he comes back to the classroom later, there are only a few minutes left before lunch ends. Ann catches sight of him and pulls him aside. It’s the first time he’s ever been this close to a girl, and the feel of her hand on his arm is startlingly warm. “Hey, Mishima, did you notice that Akira has a pretty fancy lunch today?”

“Huh?” He is too flustered that a girl is talking to him, especially one as pretty and nice as Ann, and he finds himself tongue-tied. She gestures to Akira, sitting at his desk and eating one of the curry bread Mishima made.

“It looks homemade. I asked him if he made it, but he said someone gave it to him. He won’t tell me who!”

“Ah,” Mishima answers vaguely, wondering why the pounding in his heart feels so different from the one he’d felt around Akira today. He is definitely nervous around Ann, but when Akira was this close to him it’d felt more like something else. _But what else is there?_ He wonders. _If this is nervousness, then what was that earlier?_

“Aren’t you curious? Let’s ask him together.” Ann pulls him over to Akira’s table, and Akira turns to face them.

“Ann,” he says, and his eyes travel to where she is holding Mishima’s arm. “Mishima.”

 “Come on, spill it. That lunch looks like it took a lot of time to make!” Ann nudges Mishima, and his breath hitches at the contact. “Don’t you think so too? There’s a lot of feeling put into it. Whoever made that must really like you, you know.”

 _That’s not really it. It’s more like I’m feeding a stray cat,_ Mishima thinks, and he hears a loud meowing from under Akira’s table that sounds weirdly like a laugh. _Make that two stray cats._

 “A lot of feeling, huh,” Akira says to himself, and takes another bite of his curry bread. After a moment he raises his face and looks Mishima in the eyes. “I think I might like this person too.”

It doesn’t register at all, and he can only blink dumbly as Ann squeals in excitement. “Who? Who is it? I know, I can help you out!” she says, but the bell rings before Akira can answer. They return to their seats, Ann whispering something to Akira that Mishima cannot hear, but he’s too dazed to care.

He sits at his table, Akira’s words still stuck in his mind. _I think I might like this person too,_ Akira had said. _What does that even mean?_ Mishima wonders, absently scratching the bandages on his fingers. _As a friend? I thought we’re friends already. Is it because I fed him?_

Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, but he can’t seem to figure out why those words settle something strange and nervous in him. The rest of the day pass in a dazed blur, and by the time school is over he is ready to push everything out of his mind and head home to sleep for the rest of the day. He is just about to leave when Akira stops him at the door.

“May I walk home with you?”

“Sure,” Mishima says without thinking much of it, but then he recalls the strange, nervous fluttering in his chest, the way Akira had spoken so affectionately to him today, the weird _I think I might like this person too_. “Uh, if it’s just the lunchbox, you can give it to me now.”

“Later.” Akira makes no move to take the lunchbox out, so Mishima resigns himself to walking home together with him. They stop at the gate, and Akira puts his cat down on the ground.

“Morgana, why don’t you head home without me today?” he says, and Mishima watches with amazed silence as Akira seemingly holds a serious conversation with his cat. The cat eyes Mishima, and he instinctively straightens his back out of politeness.

“Morgana understands you?” he whispers to Akira as the cat strides off, and Akira smiles.

“Something like that.” He shifts his bag on his shoulder, looking a little relieved at the change in weight. “Well then, shall we go?”

They set off together towards Mishima’s house, and now that they’re alone Mishima can’t stop thinking about what happened at lunch today. In a desperate attempt to take his mind off it, he grabs at the only topic he can find. “Hey, uh, I’ve updated the phansite.”

It’s so obvious that he’s simply fishing for something to fill the silence, but Akira listens attentively without complaint, and soon Mishima is whole-heartedly telling Akira about the changes he made to the phansite, the support of the few fans, the missions on the forums. He has even forgotten about the weird vibe at lunch by the time they stop in front of his house.

“Your lunchbox,” Akira says, and pulls out the container. When Mishima reaches for it, Akira suddenly catches his hand. The touch is unexpected, the firm grip even more so, and Mishima flinches on reflex. It’s such a lame thing to flinch at, but Akira realizes his mistake and releases him quickly.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No, I—I wasn’t scared. I just wasn’t expecting it.” Mishima squeezes his fingers, his heart pounding at the lingering feel of Akira’s touch. “But, uh, the lunchbox?”

“Wait. I want to ask you something.” Akira tucks the lunchbox under his arm and looks into his eyes, and Mishima has to fight the urge to look away. “Those bandages on your fingers…that’s because of me, isn’t it?”

It’s a strange way to phrase it, because it sounds a lot more intimate than Akira has probably intended. “What? No! Well, I mean, it’s because I’m not good at cooking yet, you know? So, uhm, it’s not your fault. I’m just bad with a knife.”

“A knife,” Akira repeats, lifting an eyebrow, “I thought you told me that you only make plain sandwiches.”

Mishima’s heart freezes cold at the reminder, and he finally understands. Oh gods, why didn’t he realize it sooner? He’d overstepped his boundaries, been too eager to please Akira, and now the fancy lunches are beginning to weird Akira out. He’s always been bad at knowing when he’s crossed the line, but he has never made such a huge mistake before. His face pales, and he casts his eyes down.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, weak and quiet. There is a brief pause, and then Akira steps closer.

“That’s not what I meant. I’m not angry.” Akira lowers his voice, sounding gentler. “Can you please look at me?”

He lifts his head, and Akira reaches out to his face with slow and deliberate care. The deep earnestness in his eyes holds Mishima in place, and his breath catches as Akira’s thumbs lightly trace the bottom of his eyes.

“You’ve lost sleep over this,” Akira says, and the tenderness is back in his voice and it squeezes the air out of Mishima’s lungs. “The curry bread was because I said I like curry, right? Thank you. I didn’t expect you to actually make something like that for me.”

Their faces are so close, and Mishima’s heart is beating to an unfamiliar rhythm and it’s hard to focus. Akira is waiting for a reply, so all he can do is smile weakly. “I’m glad it was edible.”

“It was good, actually.” Akira hesitates, looking deep into Mishima’s eyes. “But I don’t want you to make it anymore.”

“What? Why?” The thought that he has somehow offended Akira sends panic rushing into Mishima’s chest, but Akira grips his cheeks to stop him from turning away.

“I don’t want you hurting yourself over this. Or losing sleep. Not for my lunch, you know?”

“But—”

“Just say you won’t, and I’ll let go of you.”

The grip on Mishima’s cheeks is weirdly strong, and Mishima has a feeling that Akira isn’t kidding. If he doesn’t agree, Akira might just be willing to stand outside his house holding his face until his parents come home. “Okay, I won’t,” he says.

“Good.” Akira smiles faintly, brushing his thumbs over Mishima’s cheeks. “You’re not really good at looking after yourself, are you?”

“What? That’s…that’s not true.”

“I think I’ve been with you long enough to tell. You tend to put everyone else first.” The smile fades off Akira’s face, and he leans closer. When he speaks his voice is low, hushed, almost like an afterthought. “It’s what I like about you.”

The words are familiar because Akira has already said this before, in the classroom with the curry bread in his hand, but Mishima’s heart still jumps at that. They gaze at each other, and there’s something growing in Akira’s eyes that Mishima doesn’t recognize, an indescribable emotion that makes Akira look so strangely vulnerable in the space between them. It takes a few heartbeats before Akira finally draws a quiet breath and whispers, “I think I might be falling for you.”

It’s so soft and breathless that it’s almost hard to hear him, but they are close enough that Mishima catches every word. His brain comes to a screeching halt, and he can only stare blankly back. Falling? For him? As in falling in love, right? _No way, that’s impossible_ , comes the immediate thought, but Akira is not smiling and there’s no trace of a joke in his eyes or his face; in fact he looks almost worried, nervous even, and if Mishima doesn’t know any better he would’ve thought Akira is afraid of what he would say. “Huh?” He manages, and then, “Because of the food?”

Akira’s eyes widen, and then he chokes back something that sounds like a laugh and lets him go. The serious tension between them lifts and it’s somehow easier to breathe again. “It’s good, but not _that_ good.”

“Hey,” Mishima protests, but it’s weak because he’s in no state to string together a sentence right now. There’s just no way someone like Akira would like him, and he knows it. So why on earth did Akira say that? _This is not how I thought things would turn out today,_ Mishima thinks.

“Well, it’s fine if you don’t believe me. For now, anyway.” Akira takes the lunchbox out from under his arm and Mishima holds his hand out for it, but Akira simply packs it back into his own bag. “I should probably wash this for you first, shouldn’t I?”

“That’s—I can do that myself.”

“But it’ll be rude of me.” Akira smiles, and there’s something about his expression that reminds Mishima that he is dealing with a real life phantom thief. “How about I thank you for all those free lunches you keep making me? Tomorrow is Sunday. Come over to my place tomorrow, and I’ll make you something.”

“I thought you said the stuff in the fridge isn’t for you.”

“I’ll think of something.” Akira turns and walks off, and Mishima can only gape after him as he heads down the road. As Mishima watches, Akira lifts and waves the lunchbox in the air.

“Tomorrow, okay?” Akira calls, and though that’s his lunchbox being held hostage, Mishima can’t help but smile.

He really should’ve minded his own business, but playing with fire is a lot more fun than he thought.

 

* * *

 


End file.
